


sorrow.cy

by captain_othersider



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Cyberpunk, Cyberpunk, Cyborgs, Far Future, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Not Really Character Death, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-03-25
Packaged: 2019-11-04 21:11:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17905718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captain_othersider/pseuds/captain_othersider
Summary: Slowly, he typed in the next question."This is ridiculous," part of him thought, "I might as well light a candle and try to conjure a spirit."The other part of him thought, "If I prove transplant hauntings exist, they’re going to give me a Genitivi Prize and then kill me."





	1. sorrow.cy.override()

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was meant to be a short fic for a tumblr prompt, but, well... things have escalated quickly. x)

Lines of code flashed before his eyes, scorching green overlapping with the distorting image of reality around.

**__start systems_check.cy_ **

**_SCANNING FOR INJURIES_ **

**_._ **

**_._ **

**_._ **

**_._ **

**_._ **

**_._ **

**_SCAN COMPLETE_ **

**_INJURIES FOUND_ **

**_S[0][11] S[1][2] S[1][7] S[1][25] S[2][12]_ **

**_M[1][2] M[1][16] M[1][22] M[2][13]_ **

**_FOREIGN OBJECT S AT M{ &_ **

**_5](_ **

**_#!} M_ **

**_[}][ &_ **

**_$} M M M M [] [] [] [] [] [_ **

He didn’t catch even half of the numbers; they burned inside his head, but, once he tried to reach them, smudged into incomprehensible noise, mixing with the high-pitched ringing in his ears, the limping thumps of his feet against the ground.

He didn’t need the exact values to know it’s bad.

The dimly lit street glitched and shifted around him; a sharp impact came seemingly out of nowhere, hard surface crashing against him, sending him flying backwards with a snapping sound he’s never heard before.

For a split second, the world went black and silent - but the words remained.

**_VISUAL SENSOR FAILURE_ **

**_AUDIAL SENSOR FAILURE_ **

**_SYSTEM REBOOT REQUIRED_ **

He didn’t know what it meant. He _didn’t_. What was he supposed to do?

Fear began to creep in; he swiped his arm blindly across the ground, hoping for solid surface, some support, and felt _nothing_. He was alone, deaf and blind, floating in empty space; he couldn’t even tell whether he was moving any longer.

_**TERRAIN READINGS FALSE** _

_**SYSTEM REB  T R** _

_**E     QU IRED** _

_**[] [] [] [] [] [] [] [] [] []** _

…Is he dying?

He closed his eyes, though there was no real purpose to it any longer.

Then, something stirred -

**__start sorrow.cy_ **

**_sorrow.cycn.override()_ **

\- and the last bit of his consciousness slipped away.


	2. cyinfo.display()

After two years of running the clinic, Dorian was more than used to clients making unusual entrances. Stumbling, falling in or crawling through the doorstep was almost more common than casually striding in and asking for a repair; this was just the kind of experience that came with working in the Shallows, where most residents will stall until their body is literally falling apart before showing up to a routine check.

Usually, however, his clients did not announce their presence by running head-first into the wall.

It was a slow day by any measure; the street outside was all but deserted, which by itself was quite unusual for the Shallows. Usually, there would be at least some gang of scoundrels roaming about, disrupting the peaceful quiet of the afternoon with the uneven screeching of their beat-up voice boxes - but today, the silence was almost overwhelming, the central districts’ noise just a distant hum in the background.

In this silence, the sound of running footsteps echoed through the entire street; still, Dorian did not think much of it until the heavy thumping was suddenly cut off by the sound of an impact, and the clinic’s southern wall trembled, sending carefully sealed boxes of spare parts tumbling off the shelves.

Now, _that_ was enough to spring him right off his seat, sparking a brief dilemma much akin to the ancient fight-or-flight reflex: shut the windows, lock the door and pretend nothing is happening outside as he cleans up the mess, or go outside like an absolute moron and take a look at whatever attacked his wall?

The second option seemed much more attractive; as said before, it was a slow day.

Stepping over the scattered containers, Dorian made his way across the clinic and to the door, opening it slightly and freezing in place, listening; nothing. Whatever the commotion was, it has come to an end.

Still, you can never be too careful; pushing the door open, he felt the familiar tingling creep down his spine as his psi-chip came to life, sparking arcs of purple energy across his arms and between his fingers. He’s only ever used it twice on actual assaulters; usually, the sight of psionic energy haloing his figure was by itself enough to send any hostile individual running - few were willing to risk their prosthetics being fried with a well-targeted impulse.

Oddly enough, he was the only one to step out and look; all the adjacent shops’ doors remained closed. Was he the only one to hear the noise - or was he the only one bored enough to be curious of the source?

Then, he heard it; breathing, strained and wheezing. _Artificial lung, punctured or crushed,_ Dorian noted automatically.

Turning the corner, he saw the source of the noise; a crumpled figure sprawled flat on the ground, right under an indent in his clinic’s wall.

_Oh, for Maker’s -_

Fine. That’s fine. He’ll think about the damage afterwards - it will be a nightmare to explain to the landlady, but that will be _later_. Right now, there’s a wounded person right in front of him, and if that breathing’s anything to go by, their state is not good.

Extinguishing the sparks around his arms, Dorian kneeled down by the figure, noting the tattered plain blue outfit - hospital clothes? - and almost entirely mechanical limbs; a quick check showed heavy modifications at the torso as well. The face was a surprise, though; with that level of modification, Dorian would expect metal plates, but brushing the stranger’s hair off revealed carefully molded features, almost perfectly imitating a human face; an expensive piece of work, and already ruined. A wide tear across the cheek, flooded with pale pink plasma, teeth poking through, the nose is bashed in. 

And those were the most superficial injuries - the ribcage was all but caved in, the spine and leg supports cracked in places that made Dorian wonder how on earth was this person able to move at all, let alone run at a speed great enough to leave a dent in his wall.

_And what the hell were they running from?_

A more careful inspection of the torso answered this question, at least in part; buried in deep pools of plasma mixed with blood were two bullets, completely flattened against the metal skeleton.

Later, having dragged the unconscious cyborg into the back room of his clinic - and having prudently changed the sign at the front door to “CLOSED” before locking it, - Dorian found at least three more bullets scraped or passed through the stranger’s body. All superficial damages, easily fixed with some plastic and a plasma refill - but the story they told definitely raised some questions.

Were they pursued? How long? Did anyone stick around to see them run into his wall and fall unconscious? Dorian assumed not; whoever was this determined to kill a cyborg would close in and put a couple more bullets in them for good measure, maybe break the processor - and there was more than enough time for that while he hesitated at the door.

Well… Ideally, this means this person wasn’t going to barge in any moment now and put the same bullets in _him_. Ideally.

The thought was worrying, still - but it soon faded into the background as he sealed the plasma leaks and cleaned the tears in the organic tissue before stapling them shut. From then on, it was all routine; wipe the pink goo off the table, hook the client up to air and plasma pumps, find the processor, connect it to the computer and run a system check.

_**_start cyinfo.cy** _

_**cyinfo.copy()** _

This part took some fiddling; as the client’s data began popping up on Dorian’s screen, he understood why. For all the modifications, a large part of their nervous system was still organic; someone went to extreme lengths trying to preserve as much of it as possible.

That and the face… Dorian frowned, swiping through the folders on the display; it didn’t take long to find what he was looking for. Vocal cords replaced as well - but with a human-like prosthetic than a standard voice box. He would bet money those were tailored to replicate the patient’s original voice, too; a surprisingly refined part in a system otherwise built from sturdy, but fairly simple components. Some of the other prosthetics were just metal and plastic and wires, not even covered in tissue to preserve the illusion of skin.

_Your features, your voice, your brain. Couldn’t afford a full makeover, but someone fought tooth and nail to keep the parts that matter. Keep you recognizable… Because they cared about you._

Not a soldier or worker, then; middle to upper middle class, if the estimated cost of all modifications is anything to go by, and even that must have punched quite a hole in the family budget. The modifications are reconstructive, not cosmetic; nobody replaces their entire face just for the hell of it - must have been some sort of accident. Tragic, but completely innocent; not the type of background that usually puts you under rapid fire.

“Synchronization complete,” the computer announced cheerfully.

_Well, enough wondering. Let’s ask our mystery guest what really happened to them._

Open the command line, navigate to the client’s profile.

**_cyinfo.display()_ **

After a moment’s pause, the dark screen lit up with lines of text:

**_PROFILE CREATED: 22.1 9:42 DRAGON_ **

**_PROFILE LAST UPDATED: 22.1 9:42 DRAGON_ **

**_NEILAR LAVELLAN / M / 25_ **

**_SYSTEM STATUS: HIBERNATING_ **

**_INJURIES SUSTAINED: DATA NOT FOUND_ **

**_VISUAL SENSOR DAMAGED_ **

**_AUDIAL SENSOR DAMAGED_ **

Damaged sensors… That would certainly explain running into a wall. He was blind and deaf; still is. Why, though? None of the injuries he’s located so far explained that.

…Maybe he’ll find the cause later - for now, he’d just have to communicate with Neilar through the keyboard.

A list of modifications followed, the same one Dorian flipped through while waiting for the synchronization to complete; it was long, and he didn’t bother reading it just yet. He’d need that when he started with repairs, but for now he scrolled past, pulling the keyboard closer and typing:

_**_start wakeup.cy** _

He turned around just in time to see two lights flare up behind Lavellan’s closed eyelids as his system came to life.

In some ways, a _wakeup_ session was better than speaking to the actual patient; communicating directly with the processor - and, in this case, the organic brain, - removed any chance of misunderstanding. Not all information may be available, but answers for simple questions were guaranteed.

“Alright,” Dorian muttered, turning back to the computer. “Let’s talk.”

**_wakeup.intr.speak(Can you hear me?)_ **

A silent moment of uncertainty - and then, a rasping exhale from the operation table:

“…Yes.” A pause. “Where… am I?”

Lavellan’s last words were cut off by a wheeze, then loud beeping; Dorian jumped up, rushing to the table. Lavellan had just tried to get up, and managed to pull himself free from the plasma tube; Dorian had to hold him down while reconnecting it. The patient struggled weakly, but not for long; after just a moment he collapsed back onto the table.

“That’s right,” Dorian said into the air. “What do you think you’re doing, exactly? I’m trying to help, if you don’t mind.”

Neilar couldn’t hear him, of course.

**_wakeup.intr.speak(Please do not move. You are very damaged. I am trying to help.)_ **

“…Who are you?”

**_wakeup.intr.speak(My name is Dorian. You’re in my clinic. You were shot, then crashed into a wall.)_ **

There was no response this time, just a pained groan; Dorian glanced at the table, making sure the patient isn’t trying to walk off again. Lavellan was in place, eyes closed, but his face twisted into a grimace; Dorian watched the metal fingers curl and claw at the table, scratching through similar marks left by former patients.

**_wakeup.intr.speak(What’s hurting you?)_ **

No response again; Lavellan’s head swayed from side to side, as though he was trying to shake something off.

“No, no, no, not again,” Dorian whispered. “Stay in place, you bastard - I’m trying to help.”

“She… won’t… leave,” Lavellan groaned through clenched teeth, throwing his head back as his fingers dug deeper into the table. “She speaks - she - _leave me alone!_ …”

_…She?_

Another cry; Lavellan’s back arched, threatening to rip out the cables again. Speaking clearly wasn’t working, and he was in pain; hastily, Dorian began typing.

_**wakeup.intr.clear()** _

Nothing.

_**wakeup.intr.revert_to_last(0)** _

Nothing.

_**wakeup.intr.revert_to_last(100)** _

Nothing -

“ _Get her out!!_ ”

Dorian cursed under his breath. Nothing was working; he’d have to cut the session short.

One thing, just one more thing to give him something to work with.

**_wakeup.intr.speak(Who is She?)_ **

**_wakeup.proc.sleep()_ **

The thrashing stopped; Lavellan froze in place.

“…Mythal,” he whispered; then, the light in his eyes faded and he fell back, limp.

“Mythal,” Dorian echoed. The word seemed meaningless. “Mythal…”

Would that be a name, then? “Her” name. “Her”, who was “speaking” to Neilar, causing him pain.

Dorian pushed the monitor back and leaned on his desk, burying his face in his palms; he let out a long breath, trying to sort through whatever just happened. Lavellan’s scream still echoed in his ears.

“Just what on earth are you,” he whispered into the sudden silence of the clinic.

 


	3. _start wakeup.cy

After a few minutes of contemplation, Dorian straightened; his eyes immediately began to burn and tear up.

“What the? - “

Through the haze, he glanced down at his hands - still smeared with plasma and blood, and so is, probably, his entire face right now.

“... _Kaffas._ ”

He needed a break. Wash up, get some coffee. He had a patient waiting - an unpaying patient, - and it seemed like that patient was going to keep his hands full for a while.

“Well, you can’t just kick him out now,” he muttered. “Wonderful, Dorian. Wonderful - just the kind of thing you left the Spires for.”

It _was_ , though. Neilar needed help, and not just with physical repairs; he was sick, even if Dorian couldn’t understand what with. It was a mystery, and quite an eerie one.

_Give me a couple of days, maybe a week..._

Slowly, the initial dread of a cumbersome project was beginning to give way to excitement of the unknown; it’s been so long since he had any challenge around here.

Dorian wiped his streaming eyes with the edge of his sleeve, glancing towards the table again; the machines hummed quietly, keeping Lavellan alive during his shutdown.

“You’ll be alright,” Dorian promised his unconscious patient. “We’ll deal with Mythal.”

Then, it was time for a wash and a change of clothes; unfolding his spare shirt, he thought briefly that the patient would need a change as well. The hospital clothes were filthy and torn through; Lavellan would need something better once he’s capable of moving again.

By the time he settled back into his chair with a cup of coffee in hand, Dorian had several ideas of what might be going on in Neilar’s system; most of them, if not all, were nonsense, but you need to start somewhere.

With a sigh, Dorian opened the folder he’s been looking at before speaking to Neilar; it contained details about his prosthetics, such as the serial number, the manufacturer and previous owners - if there were any. In this case, there must have been; aside from the personalized face and vocal cords, all of Neilar’s prosthetics looked like they’ve seen some use, while his profile suggested that he was fairly new to the augmented state of existence.

This, and his ramblings about “Her”, Mythal… There was a possible explanation to this; certainly not one he wanted to believe in, but, unfortunately, it also was the easiest one to check.

Back when he was a student, an urban legend was making the rounds in the academy; a leftover superstition from days when organic transplants were more widespread than mechanical ones. It’s been said that sometimes, when a long-used prosthetic is removed from a deceased user, a trace of their personality remains within it. If applied to somebody else, that trace could grow stronger and take over the new body. 

It was believed to be common in psi-chip users(which was utter bullshit; psi-chips simply stopped working after the user’s death, and could not be applied second-hand anyway) and heavily augmented individuals - and was, in fact, one big campaign to scare people away from the used transplant bank. Dorian couldn’t say it worked; not everybody could afford a shining new prosthetic built specifically for them, and survival often outweighed superstition. Most of his patients here in the Shallows would gladly take the risk of their new organ being haunted if it was functional.

...And yet, meeting Neilar was apparently enough to make even a rusty old skeptic like him give the legend another chance.

As Dorian thought, the folder greeted him with a neat row of sub-directories. The topmost folder was simply marked as _[UNDEFINED]_ , which usually meant data from the patient’s organic brain that the algorithm wasn’t capable of decoding; its size usually indicated quite clearly how much of the organic nervous system was replaced.

The second folder was marked with Neilar’s name, and contained several files on his prosthetics; just glancing through the list, Dorian could see his modifications were from everywhere. Not uncommon - the transplant bank only worried about matching the color of your eyes for an additional fee, - but still jarring, especially considering how many of these prosthetics he had; entire sections of the body needed to be replaced.

Once again, Dorian found himself wondering what happened to this man.

Lavellan, Lavellan… Did he hear that somewhere before? The surname was never said out loud, but somehow Dorian was quite sure he knew the correct pronunciation. Odd.

Beneath Neilar’s folder, there were a dozen more, all tagged with names. According to protocol, they should have been kept empty, appearing only as records of previous owners - but, if the legend is correct, one of them was not completely cleared out. Dorian supposed he’d have to look for leftover files, maybe a second user log.

**HELLIS, EVERA**

Empty.

**_DARRINGTON, JON_ **

Empty.

**_GARAHL, ADAIA_ **

Empty.

**_SARTH, GUINEVERE_ **

**_DU-PARAQUETTE, LOUIE_ **

**_TAVIS, MAVERICK_ **

**_RIORDAN, LIAM_ **

...All empty. When he first began going through the list, Dorian’s heart would skip a beat on each new folder, dreading the idea of finding that one file where it should not be - but halfway through, all of that fear was gone. The legend was ridiculous, and “Mythal” wasn’t even one of the names in the list; he intended to finish the list out of obligation, but he was sure there was nothing to be found there, after all.

Then, he reached the last folder; this one had only a first name in the title.

**_ABELAS_ **

...A little strange, but probably not unheard of; he clicked the icon without thinking much about it, automatically reached for the “Close” button - and froze, his mouse an inch away from it.

Inside Abelas’ folder, there was something - not a file, but another named folder, also without a surname.

**_REVAS_ **

Slowly, he moved his cursor over to the name and clicked it; once again, there was nothing inside, except for a folder with a different name.

**_ADAHLENA_ **

Click.

**_FALON_ **

Click…

Dorian found himself wondering just how far that rabbit hole would go, and whether he had enough determination to get to the end of it.

And just what did it mean for Neilar?

Five more clicks in, and the folders still did not end.

**_LINAEL_ **

...No, whatever this was, he wasn’t getting any closer to understanding it simply by clicking through.

It took quite an exercise of willpower to bring himself to close that window; part of him couldn’t help but wonder what would happen had he gone just a little further.

It was alright, though, because Dorian had a better idea - a risky one, but extremely in line with his style.


	4. wakeup.intr.speak()

Back at his old workplace, he didn’t get a lot of dangerous cases to work with; his clients at the Spires were mostly interested in routine checks and cosmetic changes. They were rich, and paranoid, and almost insultingly healthy - though they kept very loudly insisting otherwise.

He did his job, and he did it well - but it’s only when the occasional malfunction, the rare virus came through, that the entire clinic froze and somebody rushed to get him, wherever Dorian was - even if it was in the middle of dealing with another client. When all systems have already failed, when the client was practically gone, he entered the room and _brought them back_.

The people in the Shallows called him "the corpse whisperer".

Now, he was about to finally live up to that name; Dorian rolled up his sleeves and took a deep breath, trying to calm his pounding heart. Excitement mixed with fear on one side and cold, emotionless determination on the other - an intoxicating cocktail, and he felt it slowly spreading through his veins once again.

He brought up the command line console once again, repeating the earlier procedure - except instead of setting the path to Neilar’s folder, he typed in the location of Abelas’ one. He’ll try this - and if it won’t work, he’ll go a few steps further down the chain.

Inhale. Exhale. All noises around faded, even the whirring of his own machines; the world turned completely still and silent.

**__start wakeup.cy_ **

Once again, he watched Lavellan’s eyes light up; connection established, with… whoever’s in there.

**_wakeup.intr.speak(Can you hear me?)_ **

“…Yes.”

It might have been just his imagination, but the voice sounded… different. It would be stupid to jump to such conclusions from just one syllable, but -

Slowly, he typed in the next question. _This is ridiculous,_ part of him thought, _I might as well light a candle and try to conjure a spirit._

The other part of him thought, _if I prove transplant hauntings exist, they’re going to give me a Genitivi Prize and then kill me._

**_wakeup.intr.speak(Am I speaking to Neilar Lavellan?)_ **

A long moment of silence followed; long enough to make Dorian doubt, but then -

“…No.”

His heart dropped.

There _was_ something else in Lavellan’s system, something that didn’t belong there. It wasn’t a glitch or a virus or a hallucination - it was sentient, and Dorian _found it_.

**_wakeup.intr.speak(Am I speaking to Abelas?)_ **

Once again, a pause; Dorian was beginning to suspect the entity was doing that on purpose, taunting him with extra seconds of wait each time. On the other hand, perhaps it was biding its time, trying to decide what to do. He doubted anyone had ever tried to directly contact it before.

“No.”

**_wakeup.intr.speak(Am I speaking to Mythal?)_ **

Distant shifting on the table; Dorian glanced up from the monitor and saw that Neilar’s head turned, unseeing eyes staring right at him. The sight was… quite unsettling.

“Clever,” Lavellan whispered. “Yes, and no; I am but a speck of what once was.”

**_wakeup.intr.speak(This isn’t your body.)_ **

“…I know.”

**_wakeup.intr.speak(You are hurting him.)_ **

“Lies!” Neilar hissed. “I protected him from those who would tear him apart to get their hands on me.”

 _Tear him apart…_ Dorian remembered the bullets.

**_wakeup.intr.speak(Who is after you?)_ **

“I do not know.”

**_wakeup.intr.speak(Will they come here?)_ **

Silence.

**_wakeup.intr.speak(Will they come here?)_ **

**_ERROR AT WAKEUP.INTR_ **

**_NO ACTIVE CONNECTION FOUND_ **

He looked up; the light in Lavellan’s eyes was gone. Dorian cursed quietly.

He tried to run the protocol a couple more times, trying different paths and settings, but to no avail; Mythal was gone.

Suddenly, it occurred to him he didn’t record any of the conversation.

 _Nobody is going to believe you,_ Dorian thought, _and they will be right._

Absentmindedly, he grabbed the cup of coffee previously abandoned on his desk, now completely cold, and downed about half of it, barely feeling the taste.

Then, with a deep sigh, he stood up. There was a lot of work to be done.


	5. SYSTEM STATUS: ACTIVE

It was long past midnight when he finally stepped away from the operation table, but Lavellan was definitely in a better state now. Many of his transplants needed some more attention before they could be properly restored, but after fixing the punctured lung and removing the bent ribs’ pressure on the internal organs the system no longer threatened to face. The sensors’ state was a pleasant surprise, too; Dorian expected to see serious damage, but in reality they were simply disconnected from the processor for some reason. Putting the contacts back into place required some dexterity, but was otherwise only a few minutes’ work.

He didn’t have the materials on hand to repair the face properly, and that was a shame; there was only so much he could do, gluing torn tissue back together in a crude scar-like line. Neilar would have to do with a more limited range of expression on his right side; the wound, while small, kept leaking and had to be treated before the plasma began collecting in the mouth and throat. There was nothing he could do about the shattered nose right now, either, but the breathing mechanism was not damaged and those repairs could be left for later.

Setting up the security system for the night, circling the clinic one last time before heading to his apartment upstairs, Dorian kept going over the list of tasks for tomorrow in his head. It was a constant hum in his mind, one he knew would follow him even in his sleep - but that was a good thing; it wouldn’t leave room for anything else, and this was the way he preferred it.

_Deal with the dents left by the bullets in in the metal carcass, run a proper test on the sensors, tissue replacements, wiring…_

He didn’t open the clinic the following morning; most of the day went by in a blur, hours bleeding into one another as he went from task to task with short breaks in-between.

By afternoon, the entire place was reeking of plasma, disinfectant and plastic, and Dorian’s made excellent progress; the most difficult part - the damaged spine, - was already dealt with, so he could move on to restoring the limbs back to mobility. Fixing the exterior prosthetics was arguably the easiest, and the cleanest, part of an operation; it was an entirely mechanical procedure, the success of which depended on correctly identifying every part’s model and materials. For the most part, it also didn’t involve being drenched in various fluids, for which Dorian was infinitely thankful.

He put on a news program to serve as white noise and remind him of the current time every once in a while, and got to work. The news anchors’ voices echoed through the clinic, reporting obviously very important facts about the Council, and the colonies, and whatnot.

“…Research continues to find the most effective way to combat the Y-324 outbreak, nicknamed by the hospitals’ staff as «The black-eye fever»…”

Without looking up, Dorian changed the channel - but the anchor’s words still left a bitter aftertaste. He hasn’t texted Felix in a while. Should he do that right now?

…Well, maybe not in the middle of disassembling a client’s arm. But he’ll call him later. The moment he’s done here.

It took some effort to chase the guilt out of his mind and focus on the prosthetic again, but eventually he managed. Some more time went by; he put the arm back together, replaced the cracked plates and the damaged joint.

“…incident, Neilar Lavellan…”

At first, Dorian thought he misheard - but a glance at his computer monitor, where the program was playing, showed his patient’s name written in the bottom of the screen along with a title:

**_HAVEN FIRE CLAIMS THIRD AND FINAL VICTIM_ **

“…sadly, had passed away this morning in Her Mercy hospital after a failed reconstruction attempt…”

A photo appeared above the name. Dorian looked down at his patient, then back at the screen. The photo was obviously taken pre-augmentation, but there could be no mistake; it was his patient, smiling at the camera. Whoever made his facial prosthetic _did_ do a damn good job; the semblance was almost uncanny.

“Two days ago,” the news anchor continued meanwhile, “A fire broke out in Haven University’s biochemistry lab. A group of students was inside, overseen by Professor Adan and his two assistants. According to witnesses, the professor’s leg prosthetic malfunctioned; his assistant, Minaeve Neris, stayed behind to help him, tasking her colleague Neilar Lavellan with evacuating the students in the meantime. Once the group was outside, Lavellan realized the other two still remained in the building and, ignoring all warnings, ran back inside. Shortly after, an explosion erupted within the building; the professor and Minaeve were killed instantly, while Lavellan was severely injured and taken to Her Mercy hospital for an attempt of reconstruction; unfortunately, his body rejected the transplants, leading to a fatal outcome.”

Maker, _that’s_ where he heard the name. He must have heard the report of the initial explosion, maybe overheard someone discussing it, but paid it no mind back then.

 _A large explosion would certainly explain the scale of modification needed,_ Dorian thought absently. _Severe burns, probably wounds from various debris._

So, this is who his patient was? A hero?

The thought was strange; he kept looking at the picture on screen and seeing the beat-up face of a cyborg instead. Dorian wasn’t one to forget his projects were also people, but despite fiddling with their processors, he rarely gained any deep insights about them. The people in the Spires were too defensive; the people in the Shallows were too impatient. He learned their habits and mannerisms and sometimes routines, but he never learned _them_.

“…Lavellan was twenty five in his passing, a member of the local Dalish community and a beloved member of Haven University’s staff…”

_…Dalish?_

There were only two things Dorian knew about the Dalish - the first being that they didn’t believe in the Maker, and the second being that they never used augmentation if they could help it. Even modifications that didn’t alter the body structure that much were generally frowned upon, and cosmetic modifications outright forbidden; something about keeping one’s connection with nature.

He glanced at Neilar again, a patchwork of metal. With that kind of belief, what is it like to have half of your body replaced by neccessity? No wonder so much care went into preserving as much of his identity as possible, down to the sound of his voice; desperately clinging to what once was.

“…left behind grieving parents and a sister, whom our crew met today at the doors of Her Mercy hospital.”

The image of a brightly dressed young woman faded in, standing before a gate; red-eyed, arms crossed. The wind kept throwing her hair into her face, but she didn’t bother to brush it away.

A name flashed:

_**LIEL LAVELLAN** _

_**YOUNGER SISTER** _

“He was getting better,” she said. “He _was_. We spoke to the doctors, and they said he was fine. That he would get better. And we didn’t believe them, so we went and talked to even _more_ doctors, and they said the same thing.”

“What do you mean by this?” a voice asked, presumably from out of frame. Even on the screen, Dorian could see the slight twitch in Liel’s expression, the shift from defensiveness to unfiltered anger. Her hands fell down to her sides for a brief moment before she pointed at the hospital behind, voice rising:

“I mean _someone_ in that fucking place messed up!”

Other voices sounded from somewhere, mostly incomprehensible, but calling Liel’s name.

“Why don’t you go and ask _them_ what happened!” she yelled, face twisting into a grimace, voice breaking in the middle. “Why don’t you go and ask them why they’re lying about my brother!”

“ _Liel!_ ” another female voice called. “Liel, what are you _doing!_ \- ”

“Leave me alone!…”

“…Liel.”

The last voice didn’t come from the computer's speakers; it sounded right next to Dorian. He nearly jumped in place; turning away from the screen and back to the operation table, he saw Neilar open his eyes.

“Liel,” he repeated weakly. “…Mom. They think I’m - ”

He made an attempt to sit up; quickly, Dorian interrupted:

“…No, no, no. Stay there,” he said firmly, holding Lavellan from pushing up any further. According to his experience, new cyborgs didn’t usually react well to the sight of their own electronic “guts” and detached prosthetics, and Maker knows, there were still quite a lot of those.

Thankfully, there wasn’t much resistance.

“They think I’m dead,” Neilar said quietly. Dorian didn’t know what to say to that, not yet.

Neilar blinked; his eyes flashed, focusing.

“…You’re Dorian,” he said with a measure of certainty.

“I certainly am,” Dorian replied, relieved at the change of subject. Then, with a smile, he added:

"...And you're alive."


	6. __start systems_check.cy

For someone just reunited with the joy of living, Lavellan kept awfully quiet after their first exchange, staring off as Dorian continued working on his prosthetics. The only time he spoke was to thank Dorian for the rescue - and his response didn't spark any reaction either.

Usually, he didn’t mind some silence, welcomed it, even - but this time, it made him nervous. He kept glancing up from his work just to check Neilar hasn’t shut down again; this wouldn’t do it Dorian wanted to finish that anytime soon.

He _had_ to strike a conversation. An easy task, on surface level; countless questions spun around in his head, with Mythal helming the list for obvious reasons, but he didn’t want to overwhelm his patient.

Maybe something about Lavellan's normal life? Not the university, not his family - both sensitive topics right now.

“So,” Dorian said after a moment of thought, “Could you tell me about the Dalish? I have to admit I’ve never met a member of your community before.”

Neilar blinked slowly, clearly confused:

“...The Dalish?”

Dorian could hear the strain in his voice, but he had to keep him talking.

“Yes,” he said firmly. “I’ve only heard rumors, and I’m mighty curious. Is it true you have several gods?”

A long pause - and then, quietly, Neilar said:

“We don’t believe in gods. We believe in spirits.”

“...Spirits? Of people, or - ”

_Don’t ask about Mythal. Don’t ask about Mythal. Don’t -_

Lavellan shook his head weakly.

“No,” he said. “Not people.”

“Oh.” As nonchalantly as possible, Dorian picked up the plasma tube he was reconnecting before Neilar woke up. “What are they, then?”

“Well - “ Neilar took a deep breath, which immediately turned into a rasping cough; quickly, Dorian adjusted the life-support system’s settings. The machine was still trying to breathe for the patient; no wonder speaking was difficult. For Maker’s sake! He needed to _focus_ , not think about ghosts.

Lavellan didn’t seem to notice anything that just transpired, aside from the sudden relief that came with the change of settings. Having regained his breath, he continued:

“...Usually they embody an emotion, or - or a trait. The idea is that anything we experience probably has a spirit representing it, and we should live in harmony with these spirits. It’s somewhat complicated, but - “

“That’s fascinating,” Dorian muttered. He halted in surprise; he didn’t mean to voice that specific thought - but, well, he didn’t exactly mind either.

Lavellan laughed - or at least Dorian thought he did; the sound was more of a wheeze, but he was smiling.

“Really? I’ve never been good at explaining it.”

“Do you get asked a lot?”

“Sometimes. But usually we get asked about...“ Neilar’s voice died down mid-sentence, as the smile faded from his face.

“...About the modifications,” he finished in a much quieter tone.

Well… This had to spiral into something terrible eventually. On some level, Dorian was aware of that when he started this conversation.

The bad news were, he still hasn’t figured out what to say to this.

“I’m sorry,” he tried. It didn’t sound convincing even to him.

For a couple of seconds, there was no reply; Neilar just stared into the ceiling, silent. Just when Dorian was starting to get worried, he finally spoke:

“Some people,” he said, “Believe that technology can be a gate to the spirit world. They’re called the School of Dirthamen; they say modifications make it easier to reach out to spirits.” The corner of his mouth twitched into a joyless smile. “...My clan follows the School of Falon’Din, which teaches you should stick to the natural order to draw in good spirits, but… I might want to reconsider that now.”

_Don’t ask about -_

“Could Mythal be a spirit?” Dorian blurted out.

He regretted it the moment he saw Neilar twitch at the mention of her name; a barely noticeable, panicked movement that almost cost him a few nearly-reconnected wires. He didn’t need to look at Lavellan’s vitals to know he’s scared.

Still, when Neilar answered, his voice was almost completely steady.

“I don’t know,” he said, “But I hope that she’s not.”

Dorian let out a sigh, somewhat relieved. Of course - _of course_ she’s not a spirit. He’s dealing with something scientific, not supernatural; Mythal’s existence can probably be easily explained, and -

And he just made a patient feel damn awful to satisfy his own curiosity.

The realisation hit Dorian heavier than he expected; suddenly, the allure of the mystery was gone, leaving him alone with Neilar and his fear.

_Fasta vass._

Between the joy of finding Mythal in the first place and the satisfaction of getting an enormous amount of repairs done over such a short period of time, he found himself forgetting the distress behind all of this, forgetting there’s more to this affair than piecing information and machinery back together.

Well - of _course_ he did. That’s how he always operated, and that’s what made him good at his job; you can’t drag a patient kicking and screaming back to life if you’re busy having an emotional crisis. It was the right thing to do, and yet - and yet this time he felt horrible about it.

 _That’s why you never have conversations with patients,_ he thought. _That’s why you just put the busted cyborg into sleep mode instead of trying to keep him entertained with stupid questions. It's not like he would have been instantly taken over by ghosts._

“I’m sorry,” he said out loud. “I - I should have known it’s too soon to bring that up.”

_You did know, you ass; you just decided to ignore it._

Neilar let out a small, nervous laugh:

“It’s fine. I - I’m not sure I’ve processed it yet. Any of this. I...” He sighed. “I don’t know what’s happening, or who you are, or why I’m here, but I feel like my head’s going to burst if I even start thinking about it right now.”

Dorian felt something tug at his sleeve; had he slightly weaker nerves, it would make him jump, but instead he simply glanced down, confused, and saw metal fingers around his wrist - in a surprisingly gentle hold for someone who just received his prosthetics.

“All I know it that you saved my life,” Neilar said. “And - that sounds stupid, but I have no idea how to repay something like this, so… If what it takes is answering questions, I really don’t mind.”

For the first time now, Dorian noted, there was the hint of a genuine smile in his voice.

Neilar released his hand; the prosthetic fell down, clinking against the table and slipping off it. Dorian caught it mid-air, lifting the arm back up and to Neilar’s side.

“You’re making good use of it,” he said, “But please don’t move anymore; I still have to finish reconnecting part of the network before we can let you prance around.”

“...Good use of what?”

“Well, your arm. Usually newly augmented patients have trouble controlling their strength, but you did a really good job.”

“Oh,” Neilar said. “But… I didn’t do anything.”

Dorian blinked.

“You… you held my hand just now.”

Neilar’s eyes widened.

“I _did?!_ ”

“It’s - it’s a completely normal thing,” Dorian assured him quickly. “It’s your processor; it’ll sync up soon enough.”

“My processor,” Neilar repeated. “That - alright, that makes sense. I think.”

Dorian nodded, smiling.

 _I hope it’s that,_ he thought. _I really, really hope it’s not Mythal. It’s probably not, because there is no reason for Mythal to grab my hand, unless it’s a really clever intimidation tactic. Probably._

Dear Maker… This shadow is going to be hanging over him the entire time, isn’t it? That woman, or spirit, or being, whatever she is - she’s going to haunt him too, in his own way.

Yet another reason to get rid of her as quickly as possible.

 


End file.
